Part 3
For the pure “peat reek” one must go away to the far north. There whisky was a “mercy,” something sent by an all-wise Providence to comfort the sons of men in all their troubles. Old Andrew Creach, of Caithness, was the reverse of a bigoted teetotaler. A shepherd accused him of being drunk, and quoted Scripture to the effect that no drunkard should inherit the Kingdom of God. Andrew retorted, “Ye know nothing about it, shir; what does the Scripture say? ‘Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.’ That’s the Gospel call, and I tell ye, shir, I hope I’ll go singing fu’ ower Jordan.”
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A hard-working weaver had a less Scriptural explanation. Recognizing that the only social relaxation he could possibly enjoy was when he met his cronies to interchange ideas over a tumbler of toddy, and on being reproached by his good minister for having allowed himself to be overcome by the seductions of the potent national spirit, he said, as the minister expressed his astonishment that he would allow his love for whisky to overcome the better part of his nature: “Ah, meenister, it’s no the whisky, it’s the ‘here’s t’ye’ that dis a’ the mischief.”
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There is an old story of one man coming into a public-house and asking for a glass of whisky because he was hot, another asking for one because he was cold, and a third because he liked it.
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A young countryman went a considerable distance to pay a visit to his uncle and aunt and cousins, who were reputed a family of strict teetotalers. During his first meal at his kinsman’s table the young man commented on the absence of spirituous liquors. “We’re a’ temperance folk here, ye ken,” interrupted the old man. “No spirituous liquors are allowed to enter this house.” After dinner the old man went upstairs to take his customary “forty winks,” the girls started off to Sunday School, and the boys lounged away to smoke in the stable. As soon as Aunt Betty found herself alone in the kitchen she put her fore finger to her lips, to enjoin silence on the part of her youthful nephew, and going to a dark nook in the pantry, she drew therefrom a little black bottle, and filling a glass, held it out to him and said, “Here, John, tak’ a taste o’ that. Our gudeman’s sic a strict teetotaler that I daurna let him ken that I keep a wee drap in the hoose—just for medicine. So dinna mention it.” A few minutes later the old man cried from the stairhead, “Are you there, John?” The nephew went upstairs, when the head of the house took him to his own bedroom, where he promptly produced a gallon-jar of whisky from an old portmanteau under the bed, and, pouring out a hearty dram, said: “Teetotalin’ doesna prevent me frae keepin’ a wee drap o’ the ‘rale peat reek’ in case o’ illness or that; so here, lad, put ye that in yer cheek; but (confidentially) not a word aboot it to your auntie, or the laddies.” Strolling out of doors after this second surprise, and entering the stable, the cousins beckoned their relative into the barn, where after fumbling among the straw for a few seconds, they handed him a black bottle, with the encouraging—“Tak’ a sook o’ that, cousin, ye’ll find it’s gude; but not a word to the old fouks, mind, for twa mair infatuated teetotalers were never born.” Such things happen also in the State of Maine they say. [Ed.
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John and Betty M’Dougal went to a temperance lecture and signed the pledge. On their way home they bought a bottle of whisky to have in the house in case of illness—“medicine,” they called it. About a week after John complained of not feeling well, and said, “Betty, wuman, I’m no weel; I’ve a terrible sair stamach. Fetch the medicine; quick, wuman, quick.” Betty brought the bottle and held it up to the light, and said, “I wush, John, there may be a gless in it, for I’ve had a terrible sair stamach mysel’ every day this week!”
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Three drovers in a roadside inn met and celebrated—in whiskey. There was but one glass and that with no foot to it. One after the other they filled and refilled it, one of them saying gravely each time it came to his turn, “I think we wadna be the waur of some water,” but he never used any.
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It was a Scotchman who said that porter was a wholesome beverage if you did not drink more than a dozen bottles!
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It may have been the same man who observed, “Na, na, I never knew onybody killed wi’ drinking; but I hae kenned some that deed in the training.”
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“Bend well to the Madeira at dinner, for here you’ll get little o’t after,” was the advice given to a fellow guest at the table of a friend the latter was visiting for the first time.
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A stag party below stairs broke up late, or rather early in the morning. The wife, who was thrifty, could not sleep for the thought of the quantity of whiskey that must have been consumed. She eagerly called down the stairs to the maid, “How many bottles of whiskey have they used, Betty?” The girl, who had not to pay for the whiskey but who had to fetch water from the well, replied, “I dinna ken, mem, but they’ve drunken sax gang o’ watter.”
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When men used to drink till they fell under the table, one of a party who did not wish to go to excess followed the example of some and slid to the floor; presently he felt a small pair of hands about his throat. On asking what he was doing there came the reply, “Sir, I’m the lad to lowse the neckties.”
MISCELLANEOUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS
A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes and, faith, he’ll prent it!
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A garland for the hero’s crest And twined by her whom he loves best.
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And here’s to a’ wha drink this night, And here’s to them that’s far awa’, And muckle joy and pure delight.
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And so suppose now, while the things go away, By way of a grace we all stand up and say How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho, How pleasant it is to have money!
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And there in soul sunshine, shall bloom evermore The mem’ry of Burns, the bard of the Poor.
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Auld Lang Syne.
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Barley rigs; may we experience a few of Burns’ happy nights among them.
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Dinna’ forget.
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God loves man when he refrains from sin, The De’il loves man when he persists therein, The world loves man, when riches on him flow, And you’d love me could I pay what I owe.
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Gude nicht, and joy be wi’ you a’. Gude Nicht.
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Health to the man, death to the fish, and good growth to all in the ground.
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Here’s to him that has the right And yet received the wrang, Has five shillings in his pouch And yet he wants a crown.
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Here’s to him that’s out And no to him that pits him out, And de’il turn all their insides out That doesna drink this toast about.
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Happy’s the man that belongs to nae party But sits in his ain house and looks at Benarty.
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Here’s health to the sick, stilts to the lame, claise to the back and brose to the wame.
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Here’s health, wealth, wit and meal.
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Here’s to a’ your fouk an’ a’ our fouk, an’ a’ the fouk that’s been kind to your fouk an’ our fouk; an’ if a’ fouk had aye been as kind to fouk as your fouk’s been to our fouk, there wad aye hae been guid fouk i’ the warld sin fouks bin fouks.
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Here’s to horn, corn, wool and yarn.
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In politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, Let great folks hear and see.
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Mair sense and mair siller.
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May every Scotchman be fed with crowdy-mowdy, lang-kail, and ranty-tanty.
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May liberty meet wi’ success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist And wander their way to the devil.
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May poortith never throw us in the dirt, or gowd into the high saddle.
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May the mouse ne’er leave our meal pock with the tear in his ee.
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May the winds o’ adversity never blaw open our door.
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May want, discontent and turbulence cease, May men live thegither in concord and peace, May Scotland aye yield a rich crop an’ fleece To keep our hands full wi’ the spinnin’ o’t.
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Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could mak’ us happy lang; The heart aye’s the part aye, That mak’s us right or wrang.
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Of all the arts beneath the heaven That man has found or God has given, None draws the soul so sweet away As Music’s melting mystic lay.
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O’ a’ roads to pleasure that ever were tried There’s nane half so sure as our ain fireside.
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O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us.
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Success for aye to the guid auld game, To the grand old game of the gowff.
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To horny hands and weather-beaten haffets (cheeks).
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To the rending o’ rocks and the pu’in’ doun o’ auld houses.
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The anniversary of St. Andrew’s Day and all its convivial meetings.
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The Duke of Argyll and the Campbell clan.
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Let the waiter bring clean glasses, With a fresh supply of wine— For I see by all your faces, In my wishes you will join.
It is not the charms of beauty, Which I purpose to explain, We awhile will leave that duty, For a more prevailing theme.
To the health I’m now proposing, Let’s have one full glass at least, No one here can think’t imposing— ’Tis—“The Founder of the Feast!”
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The Highland fling: may it ever cast care away.
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The nobles of Caledonia and their ladies.
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The poet of chivalry, Sir Walter Scott.
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The Scotch bagpipe but not the Scotch fiddle.
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The Scotch Greys: that made the Eagles look black.
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The Scotchman’s proverb: Get a good price but give good measure.
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The three great generals—General Peace, General Plenty and General Satisfaction.
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Then dormy hame we can sing through the round And die like golfers keen. We’ve played fu’ well the short game and lang, The game on the golfing green.
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Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human, Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.
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“To each and all a fair good night, And pleasing dreams and slumbers bright.”
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To Edinburgh—the penniless lass wi’ the lang pedigree.
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To Burns
Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass The brighter seem.
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To Burns
For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough: He sits beside each ingle-nook; His voice is in each rushing brook Each rustling bough.
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To the memory of Sir Ralph Abercromby, and may the laurels which Scotland gained when he fell bloom to the latest ages untarnished by any of her future warriors.
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To the memory of Robert Bruce.
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To the Shakespeare of novelists, Sir Walter Scott.
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Up wi’ my ploughman, lad, And hey my merry ploughman, Of a’ the trades that I do ken Commend me to the ploughman.
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When driving ceases, may we still be able To play the shorts, putt and be comfortable.
* * * * *
Yonder’s the moon, I ken her horn, She’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; She shines fu’ bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she’ll wait a wee!
SCOTTISH TOASTS
A MISCELLANY
Most folks give their sentiments after their song, But I cannot say that is my teacher; To part heart and harmony sure must be wrong, Song and Sentiment I join together: So at once in a Song I’ll my Sentiments give, Sure you’ll all approve what I am giving— “Here’s our noble selves, and long may we live, With dear Scotland, the land that we lived in.”
Then here’s “Lovely Woman!” each man will drink that, For in each care and ill she’ll relieve him; “Sweet home,” for though homely, ’tis home for all that, With “a friend and a bottle to give him.” Here’s “may honour and honesty never decline,” ’Tis the wish of my heart, I assure ye; “May justice and mercy for ever entwine,” With our glorious “Trial by Jury.”
May the moment now present, of life be the worst, May the honest heart ne’er know distress, May we have in our arms what in heart we love best, All those that bless us may we bless. “A good trade and well paid” which ensures “peace and plenty;” “Honest men, pretty women” for ever! “Playhouses full, and Workhouses empty,” And “may worth and want finally sever.”
“Here’s the heart that can feel for another’s distress,” And “the man that was never ungrateful;” Here’s “may we the smiles of good humour possess, With friends around, cheerful and faithful.” Here’s “our own wooden walls,” that still lay our foes flat, With those treasures, wives, children, and friends, “Here’s our own noble selves,” and now having drank that, Here my Song of good Sentiment ends.
THE END.